Page 20 of The Daughters of Avalon
“Even after discovering I am a woman?”
Malcom shrugged again. “I have dismembered wee boys for less,” he confessed, though it wasn’t entirely true. He’d merely meant to frighten one of his fostered boys after he stole another fellow’s dagger. And, having compelled the lad to put a hand on the table so Malcom could exact his “justice,” Malcom fully intended to miss, but the boy moved his hand. Alwin lost two fingers that day, but he never again stole from his fellows, and thereafter, he’d learned to swing an axe with far deadlier results than most of Malcom’s seasoned men-at-arms. These days, Alwin was far more to him than just a man at arms. He was Malcom’s steward, and Malcom trusted him with the keys to his house.
“Why freshenbeforecalling?” Elspeth inquired, and the question rankled Malcom more than it should. In truth, it irritated him that she would presume to ask for details when she was so unwilling to provide any of her own. “I should think our host would be pleased enough to provide the courtesy of a bowl of water withvin aigre.”
Malcom would prefer washing in an ice-cold stream over a bowl laced with soured wine. But he didn’t respond, and he kepton walking, the morning’s good humor entirely diminished—even despite their recent truce.
And to make matters worse, his shoulder was hurting, and the wound was bound to raise questions. This was the primary reason he preferred to wash himselfbeforefacing Beauchamp. And yet it was not the only reason, and neither was it any of her concern that merely by virtue of the fact that he would arrive bearing a female guest, he would be forced now to declare one way or another for Beauchamp’s sister. Once he denied the girl, Beauchamp was bound to be angered, and he was as shrewd as he was dishonest. If Beauchamp sensed a means to profit from Malcom’s misfortune, he would surely do so. Were Malcom alone, as he was meant to be, he would have taken respite here in the woods, and left Beauchamp to wait for an answer. But that was no longer an option. It was either call upon Amdel or take Elspeth to that inn, and Malcom had only stepped into that hellhole but once—and that was one too many times. He’d known more than a few men who’d claimed they’d meant to shelter at Darkwood en route from court, and curiously, knew at least two who were never heard from again—not barons or earls, merely vassals whose horses and purses were fat enough to make them worth the while of burgling, but who might not be so quickly missed.
However, if not Amdel or the inn, Elspeth would be forced to sleep on the hard, cold ground—right next to him, because he hadn’t but one blanket. And so much as he believed he could enjoy the last of these options, he was equally certain Elspeth would not. She was no nun, so she claimed, but she was also no camp follower, and there was something about the lass, despite her current manner of dress, that made him feel she was gentle-born.
Nevertheless, after all that was said and done, he was also quite livid she had judged him and found him unworthy ofher trust. Malcom was honor-bound to help the girl, but he couldn’t help her if she refused to divulge the details of her circumstances. And regardless of his reputation, he had no intention of torturing a woman to compel the truth from her, and so, his only option was to allow her to confide in him, of her own accord, which was proving far easier said than done.
Unfortunately, Malcom had a growing sense that he had embroiled himself in something larger than he’d first supposed, and the longer she kept silent, the greater his foreboding.
And far and above all the day’s happenings, he had his own troubles to contend with. Either his sire was ill—near to death, so the missive had said—or he wasn’t ill at all, and there was something significant afoot, something portentous enough that they would summon a known king’s man from a commission in Wales and put his entire demesne at risk. And this was yet another reason he did not relish the thought of facing Beauchamp: He was a damned poor liar, despite his duties for the king. He was struggling to form a plausible story—and she would thank him for his consideration by stealing his horse. God’s blood, he didn’t wish to be angry now that he had begun to wrest a few smiles from the lass, but there it was. And here they were.
As they slipped through the brush, Elspeth followed quietly behind him, although Malcom sensed she had a hundred questions perched on the tip of her tongue.
Malcom tossed his towel over a tree branch, then proceeded to peel off his coif, thereby revealing the damage to his hauberk beneath the shoulder mantle.
Refusing to look at Elspeth, he settled the armor into a dingy pile of ringed metal and inspected the damage to his hauberk.
The blood was mostly gone, with a bit of it crusted here and there. Nevertheless, he was in a good deal more pain now, and he wished he’d seen to the wound sooner, with or withouthis squire. Indeed, he had meant to stop as soon as he could commit himself to the considerable time and effort it would take to divest himself properly. But he hadn’t counted on meeting Elspeth—or her need to escape. He cast her a glance now, and found her watching him with wide, curious eyes.
“You’re injured,” she said softly, surprised, and Malcom nodded, acknowledging the truth of that matter.
He was grateful now that he’d opted in favor of his oldhauberk. Much to the armorer’s dismay, he’d chosen not to wear the new arming doublet, with the fancy chainmail gussets sewn into the vest and the sigil of his house emblazoned on the front. As handsome as it might be, and easy as it might have been for travel, he would have incurred a far more serious wound had he been wearing the doublet. For all its weight and discomfort, there was something to be said for old-fashioned ingenuity. But the hauberk was ruined now and in need of repairs. His jerkin was also pierced all the way through, attesting to the force and speed of the missile. And thesherteitself was rent.
He sighed. As much as it galled him to have been left to defend himself, he was glad for the fact that his squire fled whilst he could. Malcom hoped Daw found himself refuge, and whatever ill humor he’d borne over the man’s desertion, he was over it now. The lad was young—perhaps too young to have taken him into battle. And so much for thinking the embattled Welsh would prove to be easier foes. It was inconceivable that Stephen should ever hope to subjugate those people.
He cast another glance at Elspeth. He could manage on his own, if he must, but thehauberkwas heavy and unwieldy. With a sigh, he moved to lift it up by the hem, finding that his arm ached. “Wouldst ye, please?” he asked her.
“Oh, yes!” she said, and at once, she tossed his grandfather’s cloak over the same branch where he’d hung his towel and rushed to aid him.
Gratitude tempered Malcom’s ire as he sank to his knees before her, allowing her the height she would need to negotiate the armor.
“I am so sorry,” she said.
Malcom arched a brow. “For what, precisely?”
“For the wound…”
His brogue was thicker now that he was weary. “If ye dinna shoot me, lass, ye ha’e naught to be sorry for.” What he wanted her to be sorry for was her stubborn silence and her readiness to flee. And then he wondered aloud, “Ye dinna shoot me, di’ ye?”
“Oh, nay! I would never… and still…” Her gaze met his briefly, before bearing up thehauberk, and Malcom could never have anticipated the thoughts that assailed him as she prepared to undress him. His blood simmered over the look of concern in her bonny blue eyes. God help him. For too damned long he’d yearned for a proper home—a gentle woman who might see to his needs… and more… someone who would greet him with warm spiced mead and sweet, gentle kisses—someone who might soothe his soul, if not his body. Elspeth wasnothis intended, nor was this his bed chamber, but he swallowed convulsively, because, far from leaving him cold, her proximity stirred a fire in his blood that Malcom couldn’t deny. She shifted to give herself leverage, gingerly pressing her knee against the side of his chest and the warmth of her thigh made him instantly hard. For but an instant, a vision appeared before his eyes, and he saw they were not surrounded by trees or a gurgling brook, but by a warm, crackling brazier and a fine curtained bed… He saw her face much as it was now, but her lips were bruised by his kisses, and her cheeks were flushed with desire. She was naked and unashamed, her skin lit copper by the fire burning in the brazier, and her breasts were bounteous enough to fill the palms of his hands.
He blinked and saw her straddle him with a smooth-skinned thigh, pushing him down on the bed with a splayed hand, then climb atop him with a siren’s smile.
Elspeth gasped, startled—as though she too had shared the vision—and remembering herself, she tugged up the hauberk over Malcom’s head, scraping his nose during the process, successfully shifting his focus from one aching appendage to another.
The instant he was free of thehauberk, Elspeth stepped back, and Malcom avoided her gaze as he shrugged free of the leather jerkin, and then the long-sleeved clothshertehe wore beneath, inspecting each in turn. All the while, Elspeth stood, watching.
When finally he dared to look at her and her eyes fell on his wound, he watched the play of emotions that crossed her features. Sorrow—for his injury?Confusion—why?And something else… something Malcom daren’t acknowledge.Desire.It was as though she too had borne the vision, and it was an excruciating long moment whilst they stood, staring into one another’s eyes.
Finally, she said, “Why did you not tell me you were injured?”
Malcom peered through his lashes. “When would have been a good time? Whilst we were fleeing your captors? Or whilst you were sleeping and snoring?”
